


My Soul's Forgotten Gleam

by hannahsoapy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Good Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Recovery, Sad with a Happy Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, me too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 14:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahsoapy/pseuds/hannahsoapy
Summary: She knew she should get help.She wouldn’t be able to get by like this forever.





	My Soul's Forgotten Gleam

**Author's Note:**

> This sat in my unfinished folder for a while, for many reasons. It was mostly complete, but it needed something else that I couldn’t figure out how to write until recently. 
> 
> For those of you that may have serious triggers related to sexual assault: This is a story about sexual assault aftermath. I haven’t described any situation in great detail, or even made it clear what exactly Hermione experienced, because any kind of sexual assault is traumatizing to the victim, no matter how minor it seems.
> 
> The poem, for those of you interested, is called 'Sonnet' by Alice Dunbar-Nelson.

_I had no thought of violets of late,_

_The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet_

* * *

 

She knew she should get help.

 

She wouldn’t be able to get by like this forever. But that would mean she would have to tell someone, and she was terrified of appearing weak. She had to be strong.

 

Her body didn’t seem to agree. It froze when someone brushed against her, paralyzing her in irrational fear. She could barely stand the touch of her best friends. It was like being there all over again, except this time it was her own body holding itself still, not _them_.

 

It was worse at night. At least while she was awake, she knew it was irrational. In her dreams, she only relived it again and again, the exact same every time. It was better to not sleep, but her body betrayed her still. She would wake up, head on a book in the library, trembling, and hoping she hadn’t made any noise. Pepper-Up potion was a constant taste in her mouth now.

 

She wondered if it was addictive, like coffee.

 

She’d tried Dreamless Sleep potion, but after two weeks, she’d started experiencing daydreams, randomly, in the middle of class, the Great Hall, pretty much everywhere. She’d rather not sleep, if she could help it.

 

Harry and Ron knew something was wrong. At least, Harry did. Ron had noticed that she was off, but he’d pretty much dismissed it. He wanted to believe everything was fine, and since she had told him she was, he did. She didn’t want them to see her differently. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she was different now. It was easier to pretend.

 

Harry understood that she was pretending. He had picked up very quickly on her don’t-touch-me vibe. Ron had as well, but more because she’d spent the first week they were back together dodging their friendly gestures. He did it out of habit now, and still occasionally touched her, unthinking, but Harry assiduously avoided it. His eyes constantly asked if she was alright, but he never pressed her.

 

She was afraid she was approaching a breaking point. It was barely October, and she’d been living in her own personal hell for nearly a month. The first couple days she’d lived in a numb, hazy bubble. When Ron and Harry had showed up, she’d emerged, fragile-shelled and unsure. Logically, she knew she couldn’t have prevented it, and it wasn’t her fault. But her emotions said shamed, tainted, dirtied, and she believed them. She knew she shouldn’t, and had always prided herself on being a rational person, but now she found herself confronted with the reality that she most definitely was not.

 

She was on patrol alone tonight. Padma hadn’t been able to make it, and no one else could fill in for her. At least, no other girl prefects. She hadn’t even asked the male prefects, even though she knew most of them had the night off.

 

She was a nervous jumble. Most of the portraits were asleep, but the softer noises of night terrified her even more. She jumped at everything, and held her wand ready at all times. When she made it up to the astronomy tower, she rushed to the railing in relief.

 

Gasping in the cool, fresh air, she didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the steps until they were nearly at the top.

 

Whirling around in a panic, wand out, she came face to face with Draco Malfoy.

 

* * *

 

_In wistful April days, when lovers mate_

_And wander through the fields in raptures sweet._

* * *

 

“Relax, Granger,” he said, hands out to his sides. Hermione lowered her trembling wand hand, but didn’t put it away.

 

“Why didn’t you ask me to fill in for Padma?” He asked, eyes glinting at her. “You have my schedule.”

 

Hermione’s edginess was increasing by the second.

 

“None of your business, Malfoy.” It came out nervous and shaky instead of snappy and confident.

 

Malfoy appeared to be searching for something in her expression.

 

“I rather think it is, Granger,” he said, slowly, but not drawling. “I’m a prefect, too. We’re not supposed to patrol alone.”

 

“I did ask some of the others,” she said defensively.

 

“So, it’s just me, then?”

 

Hermione couldn’t think of what to say. She tried not to meet his piercing eyes. What could she say, anyway? That it wasn’t just him, it was all the male prefects? She didn’t particularly feel like spilling out all her problems to Malfoy, of all people. They weren’t friends.

 

“You know, you have been acting funny,” Malfoy observed, casually leaning back on the railing next to her. Too close.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermione tried to sound confident, really, she did.

 

“Nervous, jumpy, quiet, not even paying attention in class most of the time,” he listed, Hermione’s breathing becoming shallower as he went. “My father said something strange, about you, just before term, but I didn’t think-”

 

He’d stopped talking, but Hermione barely noticed. She felt faint, and couldn’t stop shaking.

 

“Granger!” Malfoy was peering down at her, concern on his face. Hermione couldn’t think. She was trapped in her nightmare again. Malfoy was right in front of her, looming over her, but it wasn’t him she saw. He shouted her name again, and grabbed her shoulder. Hermione froze in fear, and forgot to breathe.

 

* * *

 

_The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,_

_And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine_

 

* * *

 

When she came to, her vision slowly flickering back, Malfoy was kneeling next to her, repeating her name.

 

“Granger. Granger. _Hermione_. You bloody well better wake up, Granger.” She blinked at him, surprised to find his hand gently cradling her head. He must’ve caught her before she hit the ground, because it didn’t hurt.

 

“Thank Merlin,” Draco said, giving a giant sigh of relief that she was conscious. Hermione pushed back the panic that threatened to roll over her, and carefully moved from his side to sit back against the railing.

 

“Who was it?”

 

She jerked her head up to meet his eyes. Unreadable pools of silver-grey caught her.

 

“What?” she whispered.

 

“Potter? Weasley?” His fists were clenched by his sides.

 

“They didn’t do anything.” Hermione spoke slowly, to keep the trembling out of her voice.

 

“Looks like they should have.”

 

Hermione was surprised to hear anger in his voice. Why did he care she was upset, anyway? He couldn’t care, he was a little Death Eater in training, or already one, if she believed Harry. She wasn’t sure she did, but she’d honestly not had the time to consider it. But he couldn’t really care.

 

“Was it someone here, at school?”

 

Was he trying to make her more humiliated than she already was? Hermione hadn’t thought that she could feel worse than before, but now she did. She closed her eyes, a few tears leaking out, and shook her head.

 

“Shame. I really feel like beating someone up.”

 

Her surprise must have been evident in her expression.

 

“P-my friend,” he said quietly. “She, ah, met this guy, over summer… he was nice, at first… but she, well, it was bad. And, um, Blaise and I, we went round her house, and...” He paused, clearly trying to shake off the memory. “Well, then we went and found him and bloodied him up. Without our wands. It felt good.”

 

 He said it quickly, as if he expected her to disapprove.

 

“You’re a good friend to her,” she whispered.

 

He scoffed, and crossed his arms.

 

“She wouldn’t have said anything if we hadn’t found her, Granger. And we hadn’t even noticed, before. Some friendship.”

 

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that. She moved her face in the semblance of a smile, a pathetic effort, and stood to leave.

 

“You should talk to someone.” His voice came after her. Hermione paused at the top of the steps. “Doesn’t have to be Pomfrey, or a professor, or anything. Potter, Weasley, Weaselette? Just… a suggestion.”

 

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Her throat was tight with impending tears. Instead, she gave a jerky nod, and left the astronomy tower.

 

If she’d looked behind her, on the way back to Gryffindor tower, she might have seen the flash of pale hair following and guarding her steps.

 

* * *

 

_And garish lights, and mincing little fops_

_And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine._

 

* * *

 

A week later, in the library, her attention was taken from the books surrounding her when the chair on the other side of the table was pulled out by a pale hand.

 

Draco Malfoy dropped into it.

 

Her gaze rested on his robes for a second, and then she went back to her essay. They worked, silently, in the abandoned corner of the library that she had discovered the first day of term, for several hours. It was thirty minutes to curfew when he spoke.

 

“You haven’t talked to anybody yet.”

 

Hermione jumped a little, the sound of his voice, soft and rich, echoing loudly in the little alcove. She pursed her lips, and flicked her eyes up quickly to see his expression. He looked frustrated, and… worried? Hermione almost laughed, because she’d never seen nor expected to see Malfoy’s face like that.

 

“You don’t know that, and I don’t see why it’s any of your concern, Malfoy.” There. Snappy and confident. She was good. She started gathering her things together.

 

Malfoy huffed.

 

“Look, I know you haven’t, because you’re doing-they’re doing… you know, that thing.”

 

“’That thing’?” Hermione mocked, nearly ready to leave and hoping she could get out before Malfoy saw her any more vulnerable than he already had done.

 

“You know, you don’t want them to touch you so you dance out of their reach and they sorta notice but not really, because they stop trying to hug you and stuff, but they don’t really see anything _wrong_ , and then you’re just… left sitting alone, all the time.”

 

Her breath caught, choked to a standstill in her windpipe.

 

The picture he painted was too accurate, and Hermione fled the library, and the truth in silver-grey depths.

 

* * *

 

_So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,_

_I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams_

 

* * *

 

The next day was a Saturday. Hermione was unsuccessfully attempting to distract herself with a book. It was a beautiful fall day by the Black Lake, a gentle breeze was flowing, rustling the leaves of the tree she sat under, there was no one else outside, and she couldn’t tie down her mind. It skirted the edges of dangerous thoughts, then came back to read another sentence, wandered again, and then came back to read the same sentence again and again.

 

It was during this mental boxing match that Pansy Parkinson plopped herself down on the grassy slope in front of her.

 

To say Hermione was surprised was an understatement. It was no secret that Parkinson hated all Gryffindors as much as any self-respecting Slytherin should. She couldn’t think of any reason Parkinson would decide to come down to the lake and sit next to her. It couldn’t be a case of mistaken identity-her hair was quite distinctive, and if that wasn’t enough, she was wearing her Gryffindor scarf today.

 

“He was abusive.”

 

“Um… what?” Had Parkinson just said what she thought she said?

 

“My last boyfriend. He wasn’t, at first, but then… he was.” Parkinson finally met Hermione’s shocked eyes.

 

“Draco and Blaise came by when I missed our lunch date one day. I don’t think I would have told them anything, but Draco was persistent. And it helped. It also helped that they went and beat up the bastard, but…” Parkinson took a deep breath. “Look, Draco’s not always the most sensitive, but he was right when he told me you were in a bad way. So, if you’re not going to tell me anything, that’s fine, but I’m going to drag you to the nearest Weasley, or Potter.”

 

Hermione was a bit overwhelmed.

 

“Wait, Malfoy told you to talk to me?” That couldn’t be right.

 

“No, he asked me. Thought it was a joke, at first, but...” She trailed off. “So, what’ll it be? Weaselette was in the Great Hall when I left, and I’m sure you know where Potter and Weasley are at all times.” Parkinson looked at her expectantly.

 

Tears gathered in Hermione’s eyes. She had misinterpreted Malfoy. She had expected this to turn into some kind of horrible, publically embarrassing prank. Instead, here was Pansy Parkinson, of all people, sitting in front of her, offering her help. Not exactly the most compassionate of help, but perhaps it was what she needed.

 

Hermione closed the book in her lap, and traced the shadows of leaves on her hands.

 

“I went to Diagon Alley early…”

 

When Hermione looked up when she was done, she found Pansy crying. Her own tears saw permission there, and began their own trails down the sides of her face. Pansy scooted up next to her, and pulled Hermione’s head onto her shoulder.

 

“Go on, then. There’s nothing a good Scourgify can’t fix.”

 

She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, she sobbing unattractively into Pansy’s robes, and Pansy’s silent tears streaming into her hair.

 

* * *

 

_The perfect loveliness that God has made,-_

_Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams._

 

* * *

 

The Astronomy Tower was quiet. It was a cool night, but she felt warm, and she pressed her palms around the chilled railing.

 

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she was up there, alone, but soon, she wasn’t.

 

He was making sure she’d know he was coming up, this time. His steps clomped up the stairs, and he coughed, loudly, several times. She didn’t know how he knew she was up here.

 

When he reached the top, she didn’t move, waiting to see what he wanted. He sat next to her, a few feet away, legs dangling over the edge, and said nothing. Hermione hadn’t realized she was tense until her shoulders dropped.

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, long minutes later. His robes rustled, and she felt him glance at her.

 

“I don’t-I didn’t-” he broke off and huffed. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye, dragging his fingers through his hair, ruining the perfectly slicked-back strands. “I hate this,” he finally said, gesturing outwards with one hand.

 

“What?” She asked, turning a little to face him.

 

“That you have to thank me,” he said, louder, raising his voice to the sky. “You shouldn’t have even fucking needed me!”

 

Hermione was more than a little confused.

 

 “I don’t mean-” he looked at her quickly, and then back up again, “-I mean none of this is okay. Not even if you’re… it doesn’t matter.”

 

“Oh,” she said, feeling oddly flattered.

 

“I’m  _not_ a Death Eater, you know.”

 

“Yes, I know,” she said slowly, watching his trembling frame.

 

“Because I couldn’t-I would _never-_ ,” his shimmering, silver-grey eyes met hers earnestly, and she saw him swallow, trying to force back tears. His head jerked away, and his hands came up, shoving into disheveled locks.

 

“I know,” Hermione said softly, sidling over and carefully resting her hand on his shoulder. “Draco.”

 

He shook with a choked laugh, and then slim fingers reached up, searching, but stopping just before meeting hers.

 

Hermione took a breath, and slid her fingers into his.

 

* * *

 

_And now-unwittingly, you’ve made me dream_

_Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam._

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re a victim of sexual assault, or even sexual harassment, I highly recommend talking to someone. Some of this is based on my own experience, and I know the hardest people to talk to can be the ones you’re closest to. (Luckily, therapists are really good for talking to.)
> 
> Most of all, know that it is not in any way your fault, and you are loved.


End file.
